Quiet Mischief in a Damn Fine Universe

a shirt button strikes carpet
like a mouse tapping a conch shell
with a pine needle

the button threads dangle
in the happy memories of their
tightly crossed youth

when the air moves slowly
we don’t call it wind
and tree leaves abandon their chatter

the crunch of gravel beneath tires
falsely accuses silence of a mischief
that no one cares to name

the language takes its glory
in noise making, and tangles us
in an infinite knot of meanings

but silence knows no mischief
and so we busy ourselves
with gossip about its secrets

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